Andrei Makine - A Hero's Daughter

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A Hero's Daughter: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Early works of an author who has hit the big-time are often reissued for reasons more venal than literary. None of the pre- and post- publications of Tracy Chevalier come anywhere near the standard of The Girl with the Pearl Earring, but that didn't stop them being rushed into instant print once best-sellerdom was declared and the film came out.
Andrei Makine gained international recognition only when his fourth novel, Le Testament Francais, won two prestigious prizes. Famously, the refugee from the Soviet Union who wrote in French hadn't been able to get his first novel published until he pretended it was translated from "the original Russian" by the mythical "Francoise Bour".
It's a cute story, but why has that one, A Hero's Daughter, suddenly come out in English 14 years after publication? Are the translator and/or publishers jumping on a bandwagon in the light of later prizes awarded to them both?
At 163 elegant pages, and featuring only two central characters – that is, "without the bewildering patronymics or the excessive length" of most Russian novels (a grab on the back cover) – A Hero's Daughter lightly realises huge moments in recent Russian history.
Starting with the atrocious encounters between Germany and Russia in World War II, when existence was a frozen trench and the lads are kept going with vodka and blind loyalty ("For Stalin's sake it all made sense…"), it skips over 40 pretty good years to bring the eponymous hero into the '80s, the era of Gorbachev and perestroika.
Life starts changing in ways incomprehensible to an old soldier, if 53 can be called old. Ivan feels old because he is a veteran, and because, by great good luck, he was made a Hero of the Soviet Union for simply surviving the Battle of Stalingrad. The real act of heroism that he did commit, no one ever saw. But Ivan has a precious Gold Star to prove the benevolent idiocy of the authorities, and he will never sell it, not even to numb his misery with vodka after his wife dies in their backwoods village, when life holds nothing for him.
Well, not nothing. Although their son died, Ivan and Tatyana had a daughter, Olya, a model child who studied hard and went away to Moscow to become a translator. By now, Western snouts are poking greedily into Russian troughs and there is plenty of work for a girl who knows a language or two. And who is prepared to go the extra mile – the businessmen staying in the huge hotels expect more than mere translation. The valuta they pay for services rendered means that Olya can shop at the Beriozki shops for luxury goods only available in Western currency.
Deep down she doesn't approve of this lifestyle, although perhaps it is justified by the small-time espionage she can engage in while her drugged clients are snoring. It all makes sense for the New Russia's sake. Though it would kill her father if he were to find out. She'd drop it all anyway, the moment she found a nice boy to marry.
While Olya is ambivalent about her compromises, Ivan gets some real shocks. For the first time he is no longer trotted out to speak to local schoolchildren about his role in the great battle; and in Moscow one of his old mates spills the beans on what translators really do. Ivan gets drunk and goes berserk. The damage he does in a Beriozka becomes a radio news item, and grounds for Olya's rich Russian "fiance" to give her the flick, even though she's just survived an abortion with complications. All she wants to do is to shuck off her sordid life and take her father back to the village, where she can look after them both. Unfortunately, he dies suddenly of a heart attack. Olya sleeps with a man one last time, in order to raise the money for the coffin – flogging the Gold Star doesn't do it.
The stories of Ivan and Olya are truly tough, but strangely uplifting. Life in the Soviet Union was never easy, and whatever benefits rampant capitalism might be about to provide lie outside the novel's time-frame.
Meanwhile, the penury, shortages and brutal hardship that drive ordinary citizens to alcoholism and prostitution are countered by some kind of irreducible humanity. Olya emerges as an innately good girl who will one day find her proper level; Ivan is moved by an untutored morality based on vague but sound instincts. Their friends are all pals to them and to each other.
The human face of Soviet society may have been covered with warts, but virtue of a sort shone out of it, as it also does from this deceptively slight, excellently translated, and deeply involving first novel.

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"Two each," replied the people in the middle.

"Give me six," whined a woman close to the counter. "I'll take my children's as well."

"So where are they, your children?" asked the exasperated salesclerk.

"Well, here she is, this little girl!" exclaimed the woman, tugging at the hand of a frightened schoolgirl with a satchel.

"And where's the other one?" insisted the sales-clerk.

"Out there in the street, in the stroller."

The woman, who had finally got her way, rushed toward the exit, clutching the six packs of butter to her chest.

A somewhat tipsy little bystander called out merrily: "But they're not her kids! I know her. She doesn't have any kids. She's borrowed them from her sister! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

The line gave a spasmodic shudder and moved a pace forward. The manager appeared from the doorway to the storeroom, walked through the store and called toward the end of the line that was getting longer: "Don't count on it at the back there. The butter's almost run out. Only three more cases. It's not worth your waiting. There won't be enough for everyone, that's for sure. You're wasting your time."

But the people kept flocking up, asking who was the last and joining the line. And each of them was thinking: "Who knows? Maybe there'll still be enough for me!"

Tanya reached the cashier and, over the head of another woman, held out a crumpled three-ruble note and her veteran's pass. She was not expecting such a unanimous explosion. The crowd seethed and bellowed with one voice: "Don't let her go in front of the others!"

"Isn't that just typical! These veterans! Let them buy their butter in their own store!"

"They already give them parcels. And we've been waiting here with the kids for three hours!"

"My son was killed in Afghanistan. But I don't put on airs. I wait my turn like everyone else."

"Don't give her anything! They already get enough privileges."

Someone gave her a shove with a shoulder, the crowd gave a slithery twitch and slowly edged her away from the till. Tatyana did not argue, gripped the money and the book in her injured hand, and went back toward the exit to join the line. The crowd was so dense that different lines were mingling together. Afraid of losing their places, people pressed against each other. Suddenly someone tugged at Tatyana's sleeve.

"Kuzminichna, come in front of me. Maybe we can get some of this butter."

It was the old caretaker from their factory, Aunt Valya. Tatyana stood beside her and, so as to lull the vigilance of the people behind, they began chatting quietly together. After a moment Tatyana slipped into the throng without anyone noticing. Aunt Valya was halfway along.

"It's not too bad. This lot won't take more than an hour," she remarked. "We'll get there before they close. As long as there's still some butter left!"

Tatyana looked at her watch. It was six o'clock. "It's a shame, I'm going to miss the film about Ivan," she thought. "But it's on again tomorrow morning."

"That's odd," thought Ivan. "Tatyana's still not back. She must be traipsing around the shops. Never mind. She'll see it tomorrow."

On the screen a marshal was already talking in a solemn bass voice and a restless reporter with prying eyes was asking him questions. This was followed by the jerky sequence of documentary footage from the period: the buildings of Stalingrad gently collapsing amid black clouds, as if in a state of weightlessness, beneath silent explosions.

When these shots were shown Ivan could not hold back his tears. "I've become an old man," he thought, biting his lip. His chin trembled slightly. From time to time he made silent comments to the soldiers running across the screen: "Just look at that idiot running along without keeping his head down! Get down, get down for heaven's sake, imbecile… Pooh! And they call that an attack! They're rushing straight into the enemy machine gun fire without artillery support! By the look of it, there are so many people in Russia that soldiers don't matter!"

At length Ivan himself appeared on the screen. He froze, listening to every one of his own words, not recognizing himself. "And then, after that battle," he was saying, "I went into… there was this little wood there… I look and what I see's a spring. The water's so pure! I lean over and see my own reflection… It was very strange, you know. I'm looking at myself and I don't recognize myself…" Here his story broke off and the voice-over, warm and penetrating, took up the tale: "The native soil… the soil of the Mother Country… this was what gave strength to the weary soldier, this was the truly maternal care that nurtured his courage and bravery. It was from this inexhaustible wellspring that the Soviet fighter drew his revivifying joy, the sacred hatred of the enemy, the unshakeable faith in Victory…"

* * *

The salesclerk, trying to be heard above the noise of the crowd, shouted in a strident voice: "The butter's finished!" and, turning toward the cashier added, in even more ringing tones: "Lyuda, don't make out any more tickets for butter."

Tanya was handed two packs from the bottom of the third case. The last two went to Aunt Valya. They smiled at each other as they put them into their bags and began to elbow their way toward the exit.

The disappointed crowd froze for a moment, as if unable to believe that all that time had been spent in vain, then shook itself and began to trickle slowly through the narrow door. Meanwhile there were people trying to squeeze in from outside who did not know the sale of butter was finished. At that moment a rumor began to circulate. Sausage had been delivered. The whole crowd flowed back toward the counter, forming into a line once more. More people than ever piled in from the street.

The news reached the manager's ears. She emerged from the storeroom again and bellowed out in a mocking voice, as if she were speaking to children: "What's all this then? You must be out of your minds. What's all this about sausage? There's not a scrap of sausage here. And anyway, we're closing in half an hour."

And now all anyone could think of doing was getting away. It was stiflingly hot in this compact mass of humanity. Tatyana was trying not to lose Aunt Valya, who was weaving her way very adroitly toward the door.

Everyone was infuriated. They took a malign pleasure in jostling one another, eager for an opportunity to exchange insults. Tatyana was already close to the exit when she was swept away, as if by a whirlwind, and pinned up against a wall. Someone's shoulder – she was aware of a woman's blue raincoat – pressed hard into her breast. She tried to break free but did not succeed, so densely packed was the crowd. Her very powerlessness seemed to her ridiculous. She tried to transfer her bag to her other hand, but just at that moment was surprised to feel she could no longer breathe. Suddenly there was a silence, as if deep under water, and now she could make out all too clearly the gray cloth of the coat barring her way. When, with the time lag of a distant explosion, the pain swept over her, she could not even utter a cry.

She was borne to the front of the building by a closely packed crowd… No one had noticed a thing. It was only on the steps that, as it dispersed, the crowd let her go. Tatyana collapsed gently. The butter and the veteran's pass fell out of her bag. People stumbled against her body. Some moved away hastily, others bent over her. The merry little bystander roared with laughter: "Well, what do you know? The little mother's taken a drop too many in advance of tomorrow's celebration!" Aunt Valya pushed aside the gaping onlookers, came up to her and called out in piercing tones: "Help! Look! This woman's been taken ill! Quickly, someone call an ambulance!"

Ivan arrived at the hospital wearing the jacket of his best suit. He had hurried through the evening streets accompanied by the jangling of his decorations. He was not allowed into intensive care. He stared at the doctor who was making reassuring remarks to him but took nothing in. His Gold Star, which had turned back to front as he ran, looked like a child's toy.

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